PROLOGUE: TURNING POINTS

VENGEANCE: ROAD TO DAMNATION

Choices make a man is a wisdom two young brothers have yet to fully take to heart. Separated for years but finally united, these two exiles turn home to seek retribution and freedom from a resurrected man who killed their family and raised them as his prized slave-warriors.

Choices make a woman is a lesson a young crusader has yet to learn. A paladin of a righteous god is commanded to a faraway city to defeat whoever would unleash evil upon thousands of innocents.

Their choices will determine the fate of a nation and who will die and live when the ashes fall.

 

Eight years ago

They say the best sport is where blood is spilled. The more the better. But what they had put the man into wasn’t a competition. It was a test. Yet, he knew blood would flow.

The young man, barely an adult, had been trained as a warrior whose role was to protect. A swordbearer. A bodyguard.

Let’s see how good you are, they had said with a laugh. The fifty black knights that had received him from the mercenaries of the Master had found the young man funny.

They had chained him to an elf with nine feet of squealing iron, ankle to ankle.

Get through the fort ruins, slave-warrior, with the elf alive, they had told him and thrown a broadsword to his feet. With heavy crossbows and the pointy ends of spears, they had shown him where to start.

He had been owned by the Master for years, but he remembered never feeling such unnatural dread. It wasn’t the soldiers who made him cower, but his new owner. The dark prince had stood there at the back, assessing him, smiling at him. Looking at him with those young yet ancient, vital yet wizened eyes like he was a trophy. The latest addition to his collection. The gaze was searing, and though he considered himself brave, it left the man covered in gooseflesh.

With nothing but the sword and his skills and the old elf literally at his heels, he ventured into the ruins. The fort had been constructed on the side of a steep mountain, and the young man could hear a river roaring, somewhere over the edge of the old walls, somewhere much lower. Even if he would’ve tried to escape, he had only forwards and backward to go. The dark prince and death to choose from.

Towers and the main keep had crumbled to stumps of their former selves. Blackened, torn-down stone walls without ceilings to carry led him forward. The ground was dry and arid and little grew there. In no haste to turn into food for plants and bugs, they stepped over fallen stones and crumbled mortar as they navigated the long, narrow husk of a once mighty castle. Both went silent.

The young man spared a thought for his brother, locked up like he had been, back in the prison known as their home. They had never been separated for more than few days. He wondered if his twin had already caused trouble for himself.

The foes came from the shadows, trying their best at an ambush. They were slaves, like him, the first barely trained enough to wield a sword or an ax. They died quickly. The next ones were better and fiercer, captive soldiers from a foreign land. But despite his young age, he had been trained well. The prisoner-soldiers fell one by one, without a scratch to the elf. Though his hands were tied together, the old elf was nimble and quick on his feet, the young man gave him that. He was a fighter too, the man realized, knowing well when to move and how not to hinder his guardian.

After leaving six ambushers dead or dying, the young man allowed himself to hope he was almost at the end. He knew he had keen senses – a requirement of his trade. The fort seemed empty, the road clear. All he heard was the river.

So he couldn’t understand how the ruins could hide an ogre, never much its stench of shit and sweat.

Without grace it came at them, crashing down a pillar, and its massive shoulder ripped stones off a wall as it did, snarling, snoot and drool covering its green-grey ugly face.

It had a great-axe long as a grown man’s leg from crotch to toes. In its hand, it looked laughably small, and it swung at the young man angrily, as if being mad to be have been forced such a pitiful weapon. The young man chose against parrying and ducked instead, evading the blow. He had the sense to shout at the elf to stay behind him.

The ogre grinned and flashed its row of broken black teeth, like the ruins around them. Then it charged anew, short legs propelling the monster much faster than they reasonably should.

The man slid right, the elf following his movement closely. The ax swung past and the ogre roared, its voice engulfing the torrent beyond the ragged walls, behind and beneath them.

This time, the man went on the offensive. The broadsword, trying to find a weakness, slashed a wound at the back of the monster’s bare thigh. The roar of disappointment turned to pain, but it was not deep enough.

In its rage, the ogre slammed the ax to the man’s general direction, hitting nothing but a wall and covering the chained men in dust of rock and mortar.

The young man struck again. The tip of the sword burrowed into the thick hide at its side. And stuck there.

The ogre trashed, ripping the sword of it and from the man’s hands at the same time. The man cursed, watched the ogre raise the ax. A desperate lunge backward saved him from the swing that would’ve cut him in half, but his free foot hit a rock and he went tumbling on his arse. The ogre chortled, totally oblivious to the deep cut hemorrhaging blood on its side, and leaped after them.

“To the right”, the old elf shouted. The young man complied without thinking, diving away with all the fear of death he had.

The elf swept left, pulling the chain.

The young man realized his intention and grabbed his end of the chain.

The chain taut, two men its counterweights, tripped the ogre and it crashed down, face-planting on a jutting stone.

“The head!” The elf yelled again. They had not much time.

The young man struggled up. The clumsy ogre had almost torn his foot off, but he still clutched the chain and jumped on the monster’s back. The elf had a stone in his hand and he bashed the ogre on its head. It only made the ogre growl. It trashed again, hitting the elf with its elbow. The elf went down.

The man, the chain still his hand, frantically looped it once around the ten-feet monster’s neck.

Then he pulled with all his might.

The ogre wheezed, struggled, the man on his back.

It managed to push itself around and the man went rolling off it, but his grip was iron. He pulled more, knuckles white, the chain burrowing into his flesh.

The ogre tried to reach him, claw at him, but its bulging arms and shoulders didn’t bend enough.

The young man shut his eyes, felt the skin of his hands tearing off, felt the muscles in his arms burning, but his feet planted on the monster’s back, kept pulling.

Then the ogre rattled once and went limp.

The elf, blood-faced and panting, bashed its head three times with a big rock, just to be sure.

“You fight well, half-cousin”, the elf said and fell sitting on the dirt.

“There might be more”, the young man said and swept sweat off his face with the back of his hand. “And I’m not your cousin.” He was about to go to his sword, but the elf indicated the ax instead.

“Believe me, I know elves of Kyonin, and you look familiar, even if you’re a half-elf, boy.” He smiled and got up. It was the second time someone had called him an elf from Kyonin, but he had been born in the borderlands, near Nirmathas. His father was from Kyonin, or so he had said to his mother. The man had never known him. “Cut us loose, then get my arms free.”

“We have to get to the end of the ruins”, the man said, but as the words left his lips, he knew how stupid they had been.

“No, we have to run, half-elf,” the old elf corrected. “That devil can’t have us.”

“What devil?”

The elf just pointed at the chain. The man took the ogre’s ax, and swung twice, cutting the iron first close to the elf’s ankle, then his own. There was no reason to carry extra weight with you, after all. Last, he cut the chains binding the elf’s hands.

He was about to ask where to next when he heard the clatter of armor plating and the pace of steel boots approaching. The black knights of the dark prince were coming.

“Holy Lady of Graves”, the man muttered, then ground his teeth together and gripped the great-axe harder, making blood flow down its haft. He thought about his brother.

I will not die here.

“Eager bastards”, said the elf, then began to murmur something to himself. His fingers twisted and turned, like snakes.

The half-elf thought it a prayer first, but then he saw the magical runes flickering into existence around him.

The old elf touched the man’s shoulder and he felt a tiny pinch.

“Run, to the river!” The elf ordered and shoved him away, his eyes alight with turquoise and brooking no refusal. “Go!”

The first of the black knights emerged to the small clearing they had fought in. “Halt”, commanded one, sword pointing at the elf. The blade wavered, reflecting the wielder’s uncertainty. Had not they known of his capabilities?

There was a tear in the wall, big enough for a man. The half-elf backed to it. The elf, the runes still swirling around him like strange fireflies, was between the half-elf and the knights.

The man glanced over his shoulder.

The drop was dozens of feet.

Sharp rocks jutted from the foamy torrent, eager to spear a fool-hardy jumper.

It was either the dark prince or death.

Or the river.

He heard crossbow bolts being released and he jumped.

**

 

The river wanted him dead.

Fighting to live, the half-elf lunged again to a jutting rock on the riverbank, finally found purchase despite the pull of the current, and hauled himself up from the raging stream. His silvery hair was a wet, blinding mess on his face, but he ignored it. He could breathe something else than water.

The soaked man gasped and rolled over, and gave himself a moment to rest on the smooth boulder.

Eyes closed, he heard the stream thundering, as if it was angry it had been defeated.

Yet the birds of the forest the river cut through the roar.

He knew he was hundreds of miles away but he heard home, his real home, where he had lived as a boy. He heard freedom.

His breathing steadied and he opened his eyes. Barring a clumsy slip, he had survived the river. But he had no idea had he had shaken off something much more terrifying.

“Shit”, the man cursed. He never cursed. The regal nobleman felt imprinted to his mind’s eye, impossible to shake away. His knights would be coming after him.

So he tried to get up instead but managed only a grunt. Flashing pain on his chest, courtesy of a bruised rib or two, reminded him of his current reality. His arms and legs were full of scrapes, etchings the rocks had made when he had flailed against death.

It wasn’t that bad.

He thanked Pharasma for Her protection. It had been a stretch to pray for deliverance from Her, goddess of fate or not. He should’ve died, simple as that. A falling stone should’ve bashed his skull open. A sharp rock submerged should’ve cut him in half.

But he was alive. Battered like an old ragdoll, drenched and tired as hell, but alive. The elf’s magic had brought him down like a feather. The river, of course, had not been so gentle.

Glances left and right hurt his head but told him he seemed to be the only one. There was no-one else on the riverbank.

He really was free.

“Unbelievable”, the silver-haired man muttered to the gray, dull sky. He hadn’t imagined it to happen like this.

He got to enjoy his sense of self-determination for an entire second until he thought of his brother.

He was still a hundred miles north-east, under lock and key, like the man had been and where he had been taken from. The man was supposed to take care of his brother. Not so easy a task to be performed that far away.

The man struggled to his feet, making sure he wouldn’t slip and fall back to the water, noted he probably had a sprained ankle, the one with the shackle, thanked his goddess again and then started in a limp towards the treeline. He had to return to his brother. They had planned to escape from slavery together, but the man took what he got. Now, half their plan was completed.

It wasn’t that bad.

He got to the treeline and resting an arm against a pine like an old man after rising a steep hill, took his bearings.

The Menador mountain range loomed to the south and east. The man estimated he had been pulled half a mile by the water. He had to keep going.

His way back to his brother would take him back north-east to where he had fallen from the mountainside. The thought of returning anywhere close to the prince made his soul quiver. He didn’t want to but he had to. The only option was to traverse through the Backar, and getting lost in a fey-haunted forest, unarmed with no gear, sounded even worse.

So choking his unnatural fear, trying not to imagine the hungry gaze, he stumbled forward, from one tree to another.

What had happened, he asked himself as he went.

That old elf had been a wizard.

Of course. The elf had saved his life with a spell. It had to be so. But who the hell had he been, calling him half-cousin?

There were so many questions. In the end, none of it mattered now.

Now he had to get back to his brother and save him from the Master.

And avoid the dark prince at all costs.

**

Eight years ago

The guard on duty died without making a sound. The killer’s hand was wrapped over his mouth, and the tip of the dagger slid between ribs, finding the heart.

His young yet already scarred face hidden beneath a black hood, the assassin, part elf, part man, was already on the move as the guard’s body toppled. His sharp ears picked up his hunters and their angered shouting coming from above along narrow pipes that fed air to the corridors, muffled by the thick layer of stones and earth. He thanked his luck none came from the direction he was running towards. He had planned his escape route thoroughly, and he knew the way well. The estate above had been his home for a decade, after all – his prison from which he had been allowed out only under close supervision. Until this day.

Making sure he made as little noise as possible, he sprinted in the darkness of the underground. Burning torches lighted his way every ten strides, the fluttering fire reflecting from the dagger in his hand. The fires offered more than enough light for his half-human eyes, though the cold filled his bare arms with goosebumps. Moisture had condensed onto the stony walls and ceilings, and droplets fell here and there, tap-tapping against the floor, offering the escaping killer a strange but steady rhythm to run.

He reached an end of a long t-shaped corridor and halted to steal a peek at both directions. From the right, he picked out shuffling steps approaching. He pulled back, drawing himself as close to the wall as he could, trying to become one with it, a mere shadow. The walker was one of the servant maids that populated the estate, and she was carrying dirty, old and yellowed sheets.

The killer cursed to himself, considering his options. Delphine, her name popped into his head from somewhere. What was she doing there so late in the night? She must’ve thought herself smart and to circumvent the maze of the estate by using the less traveled, straighter underground passages. The soft sound of her steps drew nearer. The man clenched the dagger in his hand.

Don’t make a turn, Delphine.

The maid arrived at the junction and was heading forward, carefree, humming a song.

Don’t turn your head, the man made the final wordless wish.

It was for naught.

She happened to glance towards the hooded man as she went, and somehow their eyes met even in the low light. He did not hesitate. He lunged forward and the killer’s free hand shot out like a viper, pulling her off her feet to his embrace, locking her back against his chest, then coiling around the maid’s head, shutting a mouth that gasped but couldn’t scream. The dirty old sheets slumped to the stones at their feet. She was so small, so helpless in his hold. She has a beautiful singing voice, the killer remembered. She had never said anything bad about him, rather, there had been some kindness in the way she had treated him and the other slaves. All it made his decision so much regrettable.

A muffled scream tried to force its way out, a small foot tried to stomp his. “I’m sorry, you didn’t deserve this”, the killer whispered to the woman’s ear and broke her neck with a snap. She knew who I was, and would’ve run and alerted the others, he reasoned to himself as if it lessened the guilt. He needed all the headway he could get. He couldn’t take any chances. Too much was at stake.

He had to live and get out.

He eased her body down like that of a passed-out friend and continued his escape. Turning right, he went where the maid had come from. He could hear his hunters, foolishly still above ground, looking for him from all the wrong places. They didn’t know what he knew.  The massive, walled estate he was escaping from had two main entrances, five strides by five wide and tall gates of thick timbers. They led north and south into a city – a sprawling metropolis. But the hooded killer was aiming to a third exit, of which only a few, even among the guardsmen, knew about. Located underground, it was a secret passage for the nobles of the House that lived in the walled compound, designed to offer a safe escape in extraordinary situations. He shouldn’t have known about it but did anyway. And after murdering the lord of the House who had made him their slave, he was going to use the hidden route for his purposes. The irony was delicious like ripe apples.

He started to a run, the composite bow slung in his back bouncing against him like a rider urging a mount to a faster gallop. There was no reason to dawdle, and every reason to take advantage of his situation. Fifty strides, the killer counted, and then another fifty more. Puddled water sloshed under his boots as he went, past barred doors, torch sconces and empty junctions. Thirty strides ahead of the barely lit corridor he could see another t-junction. Twenty strides remained a few heartbeats later. Then ten.

A broad figure in leather armor, his torso protected by a chainmail but neck and head bare, spun around the corner. His running must’ve alarmed the man.

“What..? Who’s there? Stop!”

Shit. He hadn’t planned for the exit to have a guard. Most likely he didn’t even know what he was guarding.

Less than ten strides separated them, and the surprised guard had a longsword against the killer’s dagger that had a mere six-inch blade. Not a fair fight in any terms. And the killer didn’t do fair fights, nevermind fights where the odds were stacked against him.

He doesn’t know about the Master’s death, he realized and halted, as if doing as told.

“Who are you”, the guard squinted in the half-light of the few torches, the sword across his figure in a readied stance as he carefully stepped closer.

The killer weighed his options. He was so close to freedom.  So close to getting out. The dagger slid into a sheath on his belt. He stepped forward, letting torchlight flood his face.

“You know me”, he replied, his deep but damaged voice, like crumpled silk, just carrying to his opponent’s ears. His hands remained at his sides.

The guard’s eyes went wild and he stopped in his tracks.

“W-what the hell are you doing out of your cell-”

The killer’s bow went flying around his shoulder to his grip and with his free hand he pulled out one arrow from the quiver on his back.

The guard roared and charged, realizing immediately what was his best option at survival.

The assassin had time for one shot. Two of his right-hand fingers pulled back the string, the arrow nocked between them. The guard was a big man, a big target, but he was well-protected. With a twang the arrow released and struck the guard straight in the throat, piercing an artery, the bloody tip erupting from his neck. The guardsman gurgled and thrashed, and his momentum brought him down, the stone floor cracking the shaft in two as he fell.

The assassin was already upon the dying guard and stabbed him twice in his exposed neck with grim precision. It was his fourth kill of the night. Only one would haunt him.

At the last junction of three crossing corridors, there was a simple stool standing next to a mural carved in painful detail, depicting naked women and men frolicking in a beautiful paradise garden, eating, resting, having sex in a wild summer orgy. The killer slung his bow over his back and re-sheathed his dagger, and his fingers started to trail the grooves and highlights of the strange piece of art in an even stranger place. The light of a lone torch guiding him, he started from the bottom near the floor and worked his way up towards the ceiling.

Finally, he found what he had been looking for. A part of the mural, a picture of a fountain, gave in and slid backward with a groan. Then the entire mural trembled once and started to move backward first and then sideways, revealing something behind it in utter darkness – a circling stony staircase leading up. To freedom.

His shadow showed him the way. The half-human cracked a rare smile of satisfaction under his black hood.

Wherever you are, I’m coming for you, brother.

**

A few weeks ago

She was dreaming.

A silent, desolated battlefield opens to every direction as far as her eyes can see. Her mount, a proud white stallion, steps on burned grass and brays in expectation. She is covered in her gleaming battle plate safe for her head and carries her helmet in the nook of her arm. The other grips firmly the reins. Before her stands an army in attention. Lines upon lines of figures with armor and shields polished to a sheen reflect rays of sun that light the battlefield between tears in the gray clouds. Spears, lances, axes, blades, bows all await a command, unmoving. Only the countless banners flap in the soft breeze.

Hundred thousand warriors in steel, white and red. Her army, her command. From her vantage, she can see every soldier, and every soldier can see her. She puts on her helmet, draws her longsword from its scabbard and thrusts it high up in the air. Its blade shines blindingly with sunlight. In unison, the army responds by raising its weapons. The noise created reminds her of distant thunder, and their unflinching gazes give her gooseflesh. They are standing organized without fault. She sees no fear in their faces, only bravery. Commitment to the cause, and understanding that this might be their last day alive. Every soul is ready for war, every company waiting for her order. The Honoured Riders of Gizra. The Thousand Brothers of Kortos. White Guard of Konor. Her own crusader company, the 126th Augustana. And hundreds of others. She smiles, her heart bursting with pride of this moment and her brothers and sisters in arms. Five hundred strides behind her a horde of roaring demons, buzzing insects, massive arachnids and squirming worms the size of mammoths masses to meet them in glorious battle. They will clash in a nameless plain ten miles wide and deep, but the battle will be remembered for ages. And her, the victor.

It is a dream she believes is her fate. She has seen this dream many times before and knows it is a vision her goddess grants her, to lift her spirits, to drive her forward. Soon she will give the order to move out. But she will first savor the moment, relish its importance and her role in it. The moment is the perfect stillness before a storm of such magnitude that hasn’t raged in a hundred generations. The time for speeches is over. War comes. The horrors spilled to the face of Golarion from the Abyss will be routed for good. The Worldwound will be closed, the darkness borne of a god’s death banished by the light of Iomedae. She exhales slowly, and her breath mists. The vicinity of the powers of the Abyss turns the air colder, but her unwavering faith offers her all the warmth she needs.

Every time before, she has given the command right then. But this time, the dream is different.

A sphere of golden light gently but swiftly descends through the broken clouds and approaches her. It is too bright to look upon, so she shields her eyes with her gauntleted sword arm.

Nyra Sunn, the cloud says with a wise voice of a goddess – one that commands utter respect and one that she has heard only once before. She recognizes it, and in her dream, she dismounts, takes off her helmet before placing it on the charred ground and goes down to one knee.

“My Lady”, she replies, almost whispering, overcome with awe and humility. The army of her dream warriors does not seem to notice and remains in attention. The roaring and racket of the throng of nightmares fade away.

My most loyal swordbearer. I see you approach the edges of the great conflict once more. Your iron resolve is much required in the war. My followers pray for your return each day.

She keeps her eyes down, feeling herself unworthy of her goddess’s attention and praise. She has done great things in Her name, but not enough. Not nearly enough. And her resolve has been left wanting lately.

But they must wait a little longer.

Stunned, she forgets to breathe. Back in the real world, she has ridden across three nations and over two mountain ranges at the head of her once-again complete crusade company of five hundred swords of faith, and her destination is not far. The opposite, it is painfully close.

Darkness approaches the nation of Molthune. You must turn from your path and go there to ensure the nation does not fall into chaos.

She closes her eyes and brushes aside any uncertainties. She would have never questioned Her and Her command. It is Her will. It is her duty.

Two great warriors, brothers, come to Canorate, the capital of Molthune, and will play a central role in ensuring the darkness never rises. In their own way, they will help you. However, they are unbelievers. One carries the mark of greed on his flesh, yet his heart is true. But the other has a stained, burning soul that I fear is on a road to damnation. When the time comes, you must end his life and release his soul into the oblivion before it incinerates all around him.

How will I know when, she wonders.

You will.

The promise of her goddess suffices. She is Nyra Sunn, Saint of Augustana, Hero of Nerosyan, the Blight of the Abyss, the Daughter in Steel. Young but experienced beyond her years. Generals heed her wisdom, thousands march where she orders.  Hundreds of her foes have fallen by her sword, and she will raise it against anyone her goddess demands.

“By my honor, I swear I will do as you ask, my lady Iomedae”, she replies in her dream, more adamant than she could ever hope to be awake.